


the weight of a human soul

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Blow Jobs, Clint Barton is an idiot, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Necromancer Steve Rogers, POV Steve Rogers, Reckless Dumbasses.docx, The Author Has An Unfortunate Sense of Humour, These Idiots Keep Dying On Me, Very Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The life of Steve Rogers and his one hundred and ten year-old boyfriend who died once, and his thirty five year-old boyfriend who has died three times this week alone.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 66
Kudos: 366





	the weight of a human soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy, Arson! :) Some of you who follow my Tumblr might remember me talking about this idea a while ago and here it is, absolute chaos in one fic.

_“Ma?”_

_“Yes, dear?”_

_“What does the magic feel like?”_

_“Well,” Sarah Rogers says, putting down the knife she was using to make dinner and coming over to crouch down in front of him, bracing her warm hands on his bony knees. Steve tries not to shiver - it’s been a long winter, and the guilt on his mother’s face is more than he can handle sometimes. “It depends on what your magic is drawn to. It’s got a mind of its own, you know.”_

_“What kind of a mind?”_

_She moves so she’s sitting a little more comfortably on the cold floorboards, catches his hands in hers. She’s got pieces of carrot stuck underneath her nails and Steve itches to fix it, temporarily distracted from his own question. He’s only wondering because Bucky got curious, anyhow._

_“It’s magic,” Sarah tells him. “It works in strange ways. Your grandfather’s magic felt like fire and spices, according to the stories. My grandmother used to tell me that the magic felt like being told your favourite story for the very first time. My magic feels like green things, like flowers and vines and light. When I feel it, it’s like walking in the most beautiful sunlight you’ve ever felt.”_

_“But I’ve never felt any of that."_

_Even at seven years of age, he’s worried. He can’t do the things that other children do. To lose the thing that makes his family and his blood special before he’s even felt it would be especially cruel. He wonders if the magic will be something special._

_Steve looks at the plants strewn around their cramped little house, the sparkling petals and long crawling vines. All of it is his mother’s creation._

_It’d be nice, to be able to do that._

_“Well, Stevie. That’s part of the journey, finding out.”_

“Rogers, you got the bomb?”

“Hang on,” Steve says, punches the poor minion in front of him hard enough that there’s an ominous crack. He pretends he hasn’t heard it. They drop to the ground with a muffled thump and Steve drops into a crouch, unzipping their complicated-looking black jacket. He finds it after a few minutes - a black orb that’s blinking rapidly changing lights at him, enough to give him a headache.

“Got it,” he says.

“How long have we got?”

He turns it over and finds a timer. “Five minutes.” Shit.

“Alright,” Tony says in his earpiece. “That’s long enough. Suit’s busted and there’s rubble in the way, I can’t fly to you from where I am. Think you can handle disarming a bomb?”

“What do you need me to do?”

“What does it look like?”

Steve turns it over in his hands as he explains the bomb’s appearance in as much detail as he can manage. It’s extensive enough that it takes up a full minute of the time they’ve got left, and then Tony’s guiding him into finding a green button on the side to open it up. He can hear Natasha and Bucky talking in the background, something unimpressed in their voices. They don’t like bombs. Or more accurately, they don’t like bombs if _other_ people are using them.

“There’s a lot of wires here,” he says.

“Cut the yellow one,” Tony answers. “I’ve seen something like this before.”

Steve pauses. “There’s… two yellow wires. Which one?”

“I- wait, what? Shit. The one connected to the green wire, Rogers.”

Steve finds the wire he’s talking about and then realizes he doesn’t have anything to cut it with. The shield’s too unwieldy for it. The ticking is upsetting enough that he figures _what the hell_ and catches it in his teeth. He’s come this far, a little electrocution isn’t going to be enough to kill him now. The wire splits after a second and he pulls back triumphantly, turns it over.

The timer is now at one minute. “Tony?”

“What?”

“You sure that was the right wire?”

Tony lets out a stream of curses that would make Sarah Rogers smack him with a newspaper, and then there’s a banging noise. “Shit. I can’t do anything else without actually _seeing_ it. Can you get it to me in time?”

Fifty seconds. “It’ll be a stretch.”

“We’ve had worse,” Tony says.

That’s true enough, so Steve closes up the bomb to clench it tight in his hand and runs for the street where he’d seen Tony last. He skids to a halt when he sees the rubble that Tony was talking about earlier. It’s at an angle that’s impossible to climb in forty-five seconds.

“Steve!”

He spots Natasha waving from a spot on top of the rubble. She’s got her legs braced, arms up like she’s a player in one of those baseball games they’re all forced to watch by Tony. Steve catches on a second later and backs up a few steps, throws the bomb.

Maybe _throwing the_ _bomb_ isn’t such a good idea, but Natasha catches it with ease. “Barnes, catch!”

“Wh- _fuck_ , Romanov, warn a guy. Hulk!”

The Hulk doesn’t tell anyone to catch in as many words, but he roars loud enough that it nearly dislodges the rubble Steve’s trying to climb, and then there’s a bang and a clatter through the earpiece. From his calculations there’s only twenty seconds left, and Thor grunts and then the bomb sails high enough in the air that Steve can see it in the distance.

“Oh, fuck,” Thor says in a far too calm voice - and he’s definitely been spending too much time with them if he’s saying _that_.

“Got it,” Clint shouts, and as the bomb drops out of view there’s a dark shape that leaps off of a skyscraper and falls after it. Steve doesn’t see what happens next, but he sees the arrow hit the side of the building, a rope attached that pulls taut after a second. “Stark, hands up.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Ten fucking seconds,” Tony mutters rapidly. “You couldn’t throw any faster, could you?”

There’s a loud beep eight seconds later, though, and they all sigh with relief.

“I never got to play catch with my dad when I was a kid,” Tony says dryly. “Thank you for this experience.”

“Did _anyone_ here have a decent relationship with their father?”

They’re all silent.

“Fuck me, that’s depressing,” Tony says. “How’re we feeling about burgers? Good?”

“Is anyone going to talk about the fact that Thor said fuck?”

Steve gets to the top of the rubble with Natasha a second later, and she helps pull him up. There’s something a little unsettling about how strong she is. It’s handy though, so he just grasps her hand and gets to his feet in time to hear a snapping noise and a cut-off yell. Bucky must be closer, because he mutters something unintelligible and nasty-sounding.

“Steve,” he says, a minute later. “You want to come get the village idiot?”

Steve glances up and sure enough, the rope attached to the grappling hook arrow has snapped. He lets out a long breath and Natasha raises an eyebrow curiously. He waves her off, gestures for her to follow the rapidly-shrinking Hulk as he jumps off of the rubble and heads for where he can see Bucky standing in the distance with his hands on his hips.

Luckily no one seems interested in what they’re doing, and Steve gets there just as Bucky’s flicking blood and brain matter off of his fingers onto the sidewalk. His face is screwed up in disgust as he glances up at Steve, takes a step back.

“Again?”

“Yep,” Bucky says. “He’s all yours.”

Steve tugs the glove off his right hand with his teeth, crouches down next to the mangled corpse on the sidewalk. He can still make out the proud purple chevron on Clint’s chest, although his face is covered in blood and there’s an arrow sticking through his thigh. Steve makes quick work of it - snaps the arrowhead off and then pulls it out carefully.

Bucky makes a disgusted noise from behind him. Steve doesn’t comment. It feels a little silly for the Winter Soldier to be so put-off by gore and death but it’s also a very human reaction, and Bucky deserves those more than most do.

Clint’s skin is already cooling when Steve presses his fingers against smears of blood to look for a pulse. There’s no sign of it - he knows that, he would’ve heard the heartbeat by now anyway - and he moves his hands up to the mess of bone and brain matter, closes his eyes to find the cold spark inside himself and _pulls_.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky mutters, and Clint sucks in a breath.

“Wh-? Steeb?”

“Hi there,” Steve says, helps Clint into a sitting position. He blinks at Steve a little dazedly, head swiveling around like he’s not entirely sure where he is. Bucky has a hand pressed against his face. Steve risks sneaking a hand into his hair in the guise of a hug, pulls Clint against his chest and drags his fingertips through soft golden strands. “You hit your head, honey.”

Bucky snorts. Clint doesn’t quite laugh but he makes a soft noise that’s about as close as he’ll get in this state, forever entertained by Steve’s use of pet names. It distracts him enough that he lets Steve help him to his feet and then Bucky hooks an arm around Clint’s waist to help, starts steering them in the direction of Tony.

Bucky also flicks a piece of skull off Clint’s shoulder before they enter the burger place. Steve mouths a _thank you_ at him and he rolls his eyes.

They don’t talk about the fact that Clint was legally dead half an hour ago.

_“Looks like it ran into a window, poor thing.”_

_“Isn’t there anything we can do?”_

_“It’s already dead,” Sarah says, gently shooing the other women away. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Why don’t you two go inside and make some tea, hmm? Winnifred, you know where I keep my cups. I’ll join you once I’ve buried this in the garden.”_

_Steve weaves around them as they head for the kitchen, nearly trips over his own feet. The garden’s getting overgrown - all green, no flowers. They’ve had to get rid of all the flowers because the pollen wreaks havoc on Steve’s lungs, but it’s no less beautiful. Sarah tries to catch the back of his shirt to pull him back as he stops in front of the black lump on the grass and Steve ducks out of the way._

_The crow is lying with its feet in the air. It’d be comical if it wasn’t so obviously dead. Its wings are splayed at an odd angle, blank eyes staring at nothing. Steve feels a short drag of pity for it. A life cut so short is sad, after all, and somehow he ends up thoughtlessly reaching for it._

_Then he_ feels _it - a freezing tingle that starts at his fingertips and burns cold right down to his toes. It hurts for a second, leaves him breathless and then all he can feel is something trying to tug him closer to the corpse._

_“Steve,” Bucky says, flicks at his ear to get his attention and he snaps out of it._

_He lets Bucky lead him back into the house as his mother takes care of the bird. Steve doesn’t mention it again and neither does Bucky - he’s washing off the sharp needles they’ve appropriated from the sewing kit, talking about how lucky they were that Sarah hadn’t noticed the iron rings through Steve’s ears. It’s supposed to help direct his magic, but that seems a little unnecessary now._

_Steve doesn’t say anything out loud._

_He knows, though._

_It’s a special, vicious kind of irony that Steve Rogers has an affinity for_ death.

“Do we have anything to do today?”

“Nothing superhero-related, I don’t think.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Bucky groans from the bedroom. “I ain’t getting up unless we’re about to die in the next five minutes, and even if we are I’m gonna have to consider it.”

Then there’s a thump and he makes a noise that’s hilariously close to a squeak, alerting Steve to what’s probably Clint jumping on the bed - or more likely, on top of Bucky. He’s standing in the bathroom so he doesn’t _see_ it happen, but it’s an often enough occurrence that he can recognize the sound without looking. Clint snickers a second later, confirming the thought.

He should probably go in there.

Moving seems a lot like effort right now, though.

Not that it’s comfortable standing in front of the mirror staring, but he got out of the shower and just got… stuck. He hasn’t even picked up a towel, he’s just air-drying, water droplets still stuck to his hair and the planes of his chest. It’s still weird, looking at himself. Steve’s pretty sure it’s never _not_ going to be weird.

Steve wonders what Bucky and Clint see when they look at him.

He’s pretty sure if he asks Clint there’ll be a dick joke - and Bucky’s been spending a lot of time with Clint, so it’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll get a dick joke there as well.

“Maybe I should start wearing the piercings again,” Steve says, touching his earlobe. His reflection does the same, and the expression its wearing is a mix of trepidation and dry amusement. Technically, he could afford fancier things now. Especially because now piercings are commonplace - it would take him a twenty-minute trip to find something that would serve the purpose he wants it for. “What do you think, Buck?”

Bucky’s voice floats in from the bedroom. “Will needles even work?"

“I don’t know,” he admits, but now he’s thinking about it he sort of misses them. It had certainly been a statement, and it’d be even more of one now the general public has stuck him on a pedestal. Steve’s tempted to go for it just to see the reaction.

“Piercings?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “What, you haven’t seen the photos? Steve used to have these little metal rings, all up and down his ears. Did ‘em myself. Looked pretty good, if you ask me.”

“Wait- Steve had a _punk phase_?”

“Punk wasn’t a thing back then,” Steve says, finally grabbing a towel and half-heartedly rubbing it over his body. He tosses it aside a second later, heads out of the bathroom. He was right about Clint and Bucky - Clint’s sitting cheerfully on top of Bucky’s chest, looking proud of himself. Bucky just looks amused by the situation, and Steve’s glad that Clint can’t actually squash him.

“I want photos,” Clint tells him as he walks over to the closet to find some pants.

“I think they all got lost,” Steve says. “Sorry.”

Clint sighs dramatically and flops forward onto Bucky, ignoring the squawk that gets him. When Steve’s done getting dressed he looks over to see them swatting at each other like children. It’s to be expected, really, so he doesn’t bother with trying to break it up. Clint gets bored before Bucky does and catches his hands, moves them and then sits on top of them like he isn’t trained in four hundred effective ways to pin a man.

He’s pinned them palm-up, so it just ends in Bucky squeezing his ass instead.

Clint grins and then turns so he’s looking at Steve. “Were the piercings just in your ears?”

“I think I had one in my nose one summer,” Steve supplies.

He sits on the mattress close enough that Clint reaches out to touch his face, tips it this way and that like he can see scars if he looks close enough. Steve doesn’t _get_ scars, but the intense expression that Clint gets on his face is cute. Callouses rub up against his jaw as Clint inspects his ears and then Steve’s almost disappointed when he stops. Clint’s fingers are trailing down his neck, though, so it’s not too much of a loss.

“No fun piercings?” He sounds almost disappointed.

Bucky frowns up at them both. “What’re you- _oh_.”

“What?”

“He wants to know if you had dick piercings,” Bucky says. _Oh._

“No, I didn’t- people _do_ that?” Clint’s laughing at him now, and Steve tries to imagine it, cringes a little. “Doesn’t it cause problems?”

“Lots of people do it nowadays,” Clint tells him, sounding like he’s two seconds away from dissolving into giggles. “You just have to look after it properly. Rinse it with saline solution and all that shit so it doesn’t get infected, same as you do with anything.”

“We didn’t do that back then,” Bucky says.

“Well. Probably a good thing you didn’t go for the Jacob’s ladder,” Clint says. Steve’s still running over the idea that someone would have a piercing there on _purpose_. An accident he could understand, but- “I dated a guy with one of those. Kind of fun, if I’m honest.”

“Please stop talking,” Steve says. Captain America can’t get a dick piercing just because Hawkeye thinks it’s hot. He’d have to go to a professional for that, and then it’d be a PR disaster. It’s not worth the havoc it would wreak, despite the mischievous smirk on Clint’s face.

“I have never shut up once in my life,” Clint tells him. “We’ve got to go find a historian who has a picture of you as a five-foot pissy teenager with all those piercings, though. I’ll pay them whatever they want, and then I’m framing it up for everyone to see.”

“Please don’t,” Steve says, but he’s kind of glad Clint hasn’t asked _why_ he’d worn all those piercings.

_Necromancer, they call him. Dark witch._

_Dangerous, volatile, unstable magic for an unstable person._

_Steve Rogers is sixteen and the people like him avoid him, making excuses as to why they won’t visit anymore, crossing the street when he accidentally draws too close to them. A stiff breeze could kill him and yet the magic clings stubbornly to his skin, black like the smog that oozes from the factories._

_A traveler visits to ask Steve for a drawing of his wife._

_He runs away the second his eyes land on Steve, the cold tingle of death laying over Steve’s shoulders like a cloak. Doesn’t even try to make an excuse - he’s scared, and for good reason. Steve’s heard the stories about other people with his affinity, and the ruins they leave behind. It doesn’t comfort anyone that he has no idea how to use the magic, or that he wouldn’t know what to use it for - he’s a bad omen, and that’s that._

_He’d be alone, except: Bucky._

_“How’d that job go? You meet the guy?”_

_Steve shifts on his seat so Bucky can flop across his legs, damp with sweat and shadows lingering under his eyes. He looks tired but in generally good spirits, and Steve presses careful fingers to a slow-healing cut on his cheekbone, traces along his hairline. He gets so caught up in looking that he forgets there was a question until Bucky fixes him with a stare._

_Steve swallows hard. “He didn’t show.”_

_He doesn’t know if Bucky believes him or not but when Bucky rolls to the floor and drags Steve after him, he goes._

_Bucky tugs on the metal in his ear to distract him and then licks his nose, and it's so unexpected that Steve laughs._

“What are you doing, Buck?”

Bucky barely looks up from the stack of arrows sitting on the mattress in front of him. He’s got one that’s been partially dissected in his lap, part of a rope lain across his thigh. For some reason he hasn’t deigned to put pants on for this, so he’s just sitting on the bed in loose grey boxers and a black undershirt that Steve’s pretty sure originally belonged to Clint from the way it fits on his body.

Bucky blinks at Steve and then shrugs, picks up a delicate-looking metal tool and starts fiddling with the arrowhead. “I’m just checking.”

Steve sighs and sits down next to him. “Clint wouldn’t like you messing with his arrows.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I’m just _checking_.”

It’s easier to wait him out than to try and force more words out of him, so Steve just tucks his hands between his thighs and waits for Bucky to finish whatever it is he’s doing with the arrow. Sure enough, after a few minutes Bucky huffs out a breath and shoves the mess off of the mattress with a clatter before he tugs Steve down so they’re lying face-to-face on their sides.

“Can I wrap him in bubble wrap?”

Steve snorts. “You could try. He’d just wriggle out of it, though.”

“What if I handcuffed him to the bed and locked him in here?”

“He’d think it was kinky, probably,” he replies, curls an arm over Bucky’s waist. Despite the disgruntled look on his face, Bucky’s soft and warm, and Steve tugs him a little closer to tangle their legs together before he continues. “I know you want to keep him safe. I do too, but- he’s Clint. You can’t take out the reckless part.”

“It feels like he’s getting worse,” Bucky grumbles. “How many times are you going to have to bring him back?”

“As many times as I need to,” Steve says. He tries to lighten the mood. “What, like it’s hard?”

“You’re not allowed to watch movies anymore.”

Steve shrugs as much as he can while lying on his side and then he rolls them over so he can lay on Bucky’s chest, lean down to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. Bucky scrunches it up and makes a face immediately, but he softens when Steve kisses him properly. Cold metal brushes Steve’s back through his thin shirt and rubs against his spine.

It’s weirdly comforting now, the arm. Steve hadn’t been able to look at it properly until Clint had blatantly told Bucky that he wanted it in his ass. After _that_ particular comment - and the searingly hot demonstration that had followed - it’s been a little harder to directly connect it to the trauma Bucky had suffered through for the last seventy years.

Huh. From that thought, it almost sounds like Clint’s a good influence on them. Who would’ve guessed?

Bucky tugs at Steve’s hair with his free hand and Steve moves obediently, leans back so there’s a couple of inches of space between their faces. Bucky’s still got a hint of a frown on his lips. Steve feels guilty for a split, stupid second and then remembers that their boyfriend dying isn’t his fault. It’s just the past haunting him.

“Do _I_ die this much? How many times have you brought me back?”

“Just the once,” Steve says. He’s hoping it’ll never be repeated, either.

“So it’s just Clint. Not your magic.”

Steve sighs. “I wish it was me. Yes, it’s just Clint.”

“Should we have an intervention?”

“For being accident-prone? There’s nothing we can do about something like that. We can’t keep him in a tower like Rapunzel. He’d just fall out the window and end up on the sidewalk anyway. Clint’s not the kind of person who’d just-”

“What’re you guys talking about?”

The mattress dips and Steve rolls to the side automatically to make room for the two-hundred-plus pounds of Clint Barton that wriggles in between them. His hair is damp from the shower and there’s a mischievous look in his eyes that suggests he hasn’t heard their conversation about his constant temporary deaths.

“Talkin’ about how you’re an idiot,” Bucky replies.

“Pot, kettle,” Clint says. “You were confused about dragonfruit last week.”

“I thought it was called dragonfruit for a _reason_ , you dick. ‘s not my fault people are bad at naming shit.”

Bucky hooks a leg over Clint’s thighs and wriggles closer. He ends up curled into Clint as much as he physically _can_ , one arm trapped underneath them and the other around the slim curve of Clint’s waist. Bucky’s stubble rubs up against Clint’s bare throat and it must tickle because Clint laughs at him.

There’s an opposites-attract sort of dynamic with Clint and Bucky, some kind of dark sarcastic streak that has them pushing at each other in a way Steve doesn’t do himself, but it _works_ for them.

Steve’s got to admit that he just likes _watching_ them sometimes. Clint’s all sunshine and freckles and it clashes and blends with the shadows that linger on Bucky’s face, the way he steadies the messy part of Clint’s mind. Steve props himself up on one elbow as they kiss, lets his eyes roam over the curves of muscle and scar tissue.

Bucky’s boxers hit him in the face a second later and Steve swats them away before realizing the rest of their clothes have disappeared too, and he’s got an eyeful of naked boyfriends.

Fuck, but they’re pretty.

“Stay there,” Bucky orders as he presses Clint’s wrists against the pillows. “I don’t trust you to move right now.”

“Not gonna lie, that’s kind of hot,” Clint says conversationally. He actually _does_ keep his hands where they are, which is a little surprising to see. That’s probably because Bucky’s edging down the mattress to bite at Clint’s thighs, and the noise that move earns him is _delicious_.

Steve leans over to kiss him and Clint makes one of those little overwhelmed sounds right into his mouth, the kind of sound he only makes when someone’s lips are stretched around his dick. Steve can’t blame him - Bucky’s terrifyingly efficient when it comes to blowjobs. He’s got a fascination centered around taking people apart with his mouth.

It’s almost as satisfying to watch Clint’s face and the way his hands clench uselessly against the pillows. He’s actually quite good at this _stay still_ business, when he wants to be. Steve likes variety, though, so he still draws back - despite Clint’s complaints - and glances at Bucky, noting the slow, teasing swipes of tongue he can see. Clint groans loud enough that it’d be a problem if all their rooms weren’t soundproofed.

“Shit,” Clint says breathlessly. “ _Bucky_.”

Bucky pulls off, licks his lips. “Keep him quiet, Steve.”

Well, since he asked so nicely. Steve curls his fingers in Clint’s hair a little too hard just to feel the way he gasps into the edge of pain as they kiss, trails his other hand down to feel the twitching muscles on Clint’s stomach. He ends up absently tracing the raised lines of scars as Clint shudders and comes in Bucky’s mouth.

“What’d I do to deserve _that_ ,” is what Clint says when Bucky sits up. He’s just staring blankly at the ceiling now like he’s not entirely sure where he is.

“You give me a heart attack on the regular,” Bucky answers, pulls a packet of lube out of nowhere and slicks up his left hand. “Think you can handle Steve fucking you now?”

Steve opens his mouth to argue - they shouldn’t be pushing Clint too hard, not when he’s died three times in the last week - but then Clint looks at him with dark eyes and flushed cheeks and breathes a very convincing “ _yeah_ ,” and Steve forgets most of his protests immediately.

_He brings Bucky back to life once._

_Everywhere he goes in the war, the sharp burn of magic surrounds him. It’s so strong he can’t take a breath without inhaling it, the scent of death clutching at him with too-sharp claws and slicing invisible gashes into his skin. It doesn’t hurt - it feels good, if he’s honest with himself - but it’s a reminder that he’s different in the same way he always was, even if he’s different in a new way too._

_When he bursts into the lab at Schmidt’s base he doesn’t even recognize Bucky at first._

_It’s still him, of course, and Steve’s relieved for a short few seconds. He’d been sure he’d be too late, whatever hope he’d tried to shove at Peggy and Howard. Yet here’s Bucky, strapped down to the gurney, dirt smeared on his face and still as beautiful as he’s always been._

_Steve only realizes he’s dead a few seconds later, when he reaches out to touch and the magic is so cold it burns right down to his bones. Bucky’s eyes are closed, his lashes dark against the white of his face. He’s too pale. He’s too still, and the wrongness of it makes Steve want to throw up._

_It’s feeding off of Bucky’s corpse, and the panic makes him instinctively tug at his magic for the first time._

_It floods out of him in a rush that leaves him breathless, and then Bucky’s eyes open._

_He's alive._

_“Oh thank god, Bucky.”_

_“...Steve,” Bucky says, a dazed smile appearing on his face. Steve scrambles to help him to his feet, presses his hands to Bucky’s face. He’s breathing and his heart’s beating strong enough that Steve’s new hearing can pick it up easily._

_“I thought you were dead,” Steve breathes._

_There’s something unfocused in his face but he’s alive, no doubt about it. Steve must’ve just made a stupid mistake in his panic, because Bucky’s warm under his hands, staring at him like he’s seen the face of god._

_“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky croaks at him, and Steve has to pull him close and squeeze tight enough to hurt._

“Barton’s down,” Natasha says, her voice carefully blank. “I can’t- we’re stuck in here, it’s too heavy for me to do anything. Hurry.”

Clint doesn’t comment on any of that, and further up the road Bucky swears viciously and blows up a gaggle of unaware AIM henchmen. Steve throws the shield at one trying to sneak up on him from behind and then moves into a jog, heading for the collapsed building where he’d last seen Natasha standing. Bucky catches up to him a second later, something pained and simultaneously exasperated on his face.

“On my way,” Steve says.

They spent ten minutes removing chunks of concrete and steel from the entrance before they can get to Natasha. She’s standing there impatiently when they roll the last piece away, but she’s pale and her gaze keeps flicking back to where there’s a familiar shape in purple propped up against a desk. Bucky swears again.

Clint’s not moving.

“He jumped in front of me,” he hears Natasha say. “Why do men do that? Wouldn’t it be easier to just push me out of the way?”

Bucky says something to Natasha and Steve approaches Clint’s body. He wonders if it’ll ever get less horrifying, seeing him like this. Probably not. There’s a boom and a clatter from somewhere outside and Steve turns his head as Sam comes skidding down the road like someone’s tossed him. Natasha runs out after him, but Steve can see Sam flailing so he must be alright.

Clint, on the other hand, has a metal rod sticking out of his stomach. It’s nauseating. It looks _wrong_. There’s blood stuck to his bracer and smeared across his fingertips and across the stubble he hasn’t quite managed to shave, and a fair amount of it is puddling on the floor. Steve drops down carefully, winces when Clint’s blood gets on his knees.

The building rumbles above them and Bucky drops into a crouch near the entrance, pulling a rifle from his back so he can cover the door. “We gotta get out of here, Rogers. Bring him back and let’s go.”

“I’m doing it,” Steve says, reaches out towards the fine scar just above Clint’s eyebrow.

Clint licks his hand.

Gross.

“Oh,” Steve says, stupidly. He hadn’t even noticed the shaky rise and fall of Clint’s chest under his vest. Maybe they’re getting too accustomed to him dying every time they go out. He’s still badly injured, though, and Steve’s hands drift down to the rod and then back again.

“’Tis but a scratch,” Clint croaks.

“He’s alive,” Bucky breathes, and Steve jumps because he hadn’t heard him approach. He shuffles to the side so Bucky can drop down next to him, dropping the gun on the floor and reaching out to touch Clint’s cheek. “Shit, he’s alive. What the fuck do we do _now_?”

“We can’t pull out the metal,” Steve says. “He’ll bleed out if we do.”

“You can’t do anything?”

“He’s not dead. Unless he’s dead, I can’t do a thing.”

“Maybe we should let him bleed out and then bring him back. It’d be easier, right?”

“Bucky,” Steve hisses at him. “We’re not killing Clint.”

“I’m trying to help here, Rogers! I don’t see you coming up with any clever ideas to help fix this, goddamnit.”

“I’m trying too! Hell, Buck, you wouldn’t even be able to watch him bleed out - and you _know_ that. That’d be my job, and then I have to deal with the corpse too!”

“It’s not my fault! I ain’t a fucking wizard!”

“I’m _not_ a wizard, you-”

“ _Boys_ ,” Natasha snaps, appearing out of nowhere. There’s a cold kind of fury in her eyes, and Steve wonders just how much she knows about their situation. Either way, she’s not happy, and Bucky flinches when the bands around her wrist crackle. “Move out of the way, the ambulance is outside. They’ll take it from here. I’m riding with Clint, you two can finish your arguing somewhere else.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Bucky must decide it isn’t worth the trouble because he just grabs the back of Steve’s uniform and tugs impatiently. “Which hospital?”

“Two blocks that way,” Natasha replies, pointing. “Sam’s getting the car.”

Clint blinks in their direction blearily but the blood loss must be getting to him, because he ends up staring over Steve’s shoulder. “Nat?”

“You’re an idiot,” she tells him as Steve and Bucky are walking away.

“Why does everyone keep _saying_ that,” Clint says.

_Bucky’s different, after Schmidt._

_“Are you okay? Where are you injured, we should-”_

_“I’m fine,” Bucky says, shoving him into the privacy of the tent. Steve lets him, because it’s Bucky and he can do whatever he wants to Steve whenever he wants. “Not a scratch on me. See?”_

_“The blood?”_

_“Isn’t mine,” Bucky says, doesn’t even glance around at his surroundings before he’s grabbing at Steve’s face with rough fingers and dragging him down into a kiss._ _And Jesus, that’s strange. Steve's not meant to be taller._

_Bucky seems almost frenzied as he grabs at Steve’s shirt, yanks it up so his chest is visible in the flickering candlelight._

_He rips the fabric in his haste Steve’s worried, presses a hand to his scruffy hair and prepares a speech internally about how he’s exactly the same person - just different - and Bucky’s still his world no matter the circumstances. Then Bucky’s mouth is dragging up his bare skin, hot and wet and_ hungry _. Steve pauses and Bucky’s tongue drags across a sensitive nipple, catches it in his teeth with a barest sting of pain that has Steve pulling on Bucky’s hair instead and making him moan._

_“Bucky,” Steve breathes._

_“Fuck,” Bucky says. “Shit. Goddamnit, Rogers, your fuckin’ pants are impossible, why the hell did you-”_

_“Barnes?”_

_They both freeze at Morita’s voice, stare wide-eyed at each other. Bucky’s got his fingers hooked in Steve’s pants, his breath coming out hot against the twitching muscles of Steve’s stomach. They can’t be caught like this, he knows, but Bucky’s making that face like maybe he doesn’t care. He looks wild and a little dangerous, and like Bucky’s considering sucking his dick in front of the others._

_"Give us a minute," Steve calls out, and his voice is a little shaky but Morita leaves them be anyway._

_It’s a weird fucking day when Steve has to be the voice of reason._

_He catches Bucky’s hands in his so he can’t do anything. “Buck. Are you alright?”_

_“I’m fine,” Bucky says shortly. “How many times do I have to tell you? I just- I just need-”_

_He’s clearly_ not _fine, though, and Steve can’t help but wonder if it’s his fault._

The constant beeping of the heart monitor is oddly reassuring, if a little irritating. It’s worth the annoyance just to know Clint’s okay.

Bucky scared the medical professionals out a few hours ago with his glaring. They’d probably come back if there was an emergency, but Steve can’t blame them for being nervous about a death stare coming from the Winter Soldier. Bucky’s just being a broody mother hen - Clint had shown them a video of a bantam hen once, and while Bucky can’t puff up like that it’s fairly accurate.

Clint’s not going to die, at least. Nothing vital was punctured. He’s not in danger of going anywhere even though he’s lost a lot of blood, and Steve for one is glad. He can’t keep resurrecting Clint again and again and again - well, he _can_ , but it feels like a bad idea.

So they’re stuck in the hospital room, waiting.

They can’t do anything but wait for him to heal.

Steve’s phone beeps and Bucky jumps hard enough that he knocks a glass of cold water onto Clint’s front. He scrambles for a towel and Steve chooses not to comment, instead unlocking his phone and checking the text he’s received. Deadliest assassin in the world, and he’s a hot mess behind closed doors. “Natasha’s asking if we want any Chinese food.”

“Prawn crackers,” Bucky says immediately, dabbing at the hospital sheets.

“You can’t eat just prawn crackers,” Steve replies, telling Natasha to get their usual, please and thank you. “Besides, Clint’ll be upset if we don’t have leftovers for him to eat.”

“Is he even _allowed_ to have takeaway after a near-death experience?”

“If we don’t let him eat it under supervision, we’re going to find him slipping out at three in the morning at a pizza joint, IV and all. Better to keep the leftovers.”

“Smart,” Bucky says. He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and then he speaks again. “Do you think he’s getting… riskier?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been making mistakes,” Bucky elaborates, throwing the towel over his shoulder. It knocks over the cup of water again. “Too many of them. You haven’t noticed? We started off with him dying maybe once or twice every six months, and now it’s a good _week_ if he doesn’t die twice in it. He jumped off a building without a parachute.”

“Ido that too.”

“You shouldn’t be doing it either!”

Maybe Bucky has a point.

“...you’re sure that constant resurrection doesn’t cause brain damage?”

“Your _dick_ causes brain damage,” Clint says out of nowhere, slurring the words a little.

He’s not alert enough to open his eyes, but the hand with the IV stuck in it twitches and starts feeling around on top of the sheets. Steve captures it in both of his so Clint won’t accidentally yank it out (again. He’s done it a few times before.) Bucky just sighs and lets himself fall forward so his face is pressed against Clint’s good shoulder - apparently he’d dislocated the other, on top of getting impaled.

“That’s the morphine,” Steve says, answering Bucky’s question. “I don’t see any reason it’d cause brain damage.”

“So he’s just that stupid all by himself,” Bucky mutters, the words muffled by shitty hospital gown. "Great."

“’m not _stupid_.”

“Of course you’re not,” Steve reassures Clint, and the faint frown disappears as quickly as it’d shown up. “You are getting reckless, though. Bucky’s getting worried, Clint.”

“That sounds like Bucky’s problem,” Clint tells him cheerfully. Bucky snorts at that and Clint must misinterpret the sound as an upset one because he uses his free hand to pat at Bucky’s hair. “Don’t cry, ‘m okay. Drugs are _real_ nice.”

Wow, he’s high. Steve would suggest they let him rest if it wasn’t _Clint_ \- as it is, they’re not going to be able to leave him alone for five minutes because he’ll probably try to crawl out the window and they’ve already had that drama twice now, a third time would be too many. Bucky raises his head and Clint ends up patting his nose instead.

Bucky swats his hand away. “Why would I cry over _you_ , you dork?”

“Because you love me,” Clint says, stretching out the words teasingly and grinning up at the ceiling.

Bucky makes that face that says that yeah, it’s the _truth_ but he doesn’t like being called out on it. Clint can’t see the face, though, so Steve squeezes his hand a little tighter and decides to cut in. “Yeah. We do. You have to be more careful with yourself, though.”

“Says _you_ ,” Clint retorts, which would be more effective if Steve had died even _once_ in comparison with the fifty-seven times he has. Steve decides to humour him and not argue in case Clint finds a way to die through that too. Instead he presses a kiss to the back of Clint’s knuckles, feels warm when he gets a pleased smile for it.

“Please be safer,” Steve says. “For us, if not for yourself.”

“I’ll consider it,” Clint replies, or at least that’s what Steve thinks he said. It’s hard to tell when Clint’s hopped up on drugs _and_ Bucky’s kissing him. It comes out more like _mmkuhndmt_ than actual words, and Steve wonders when these two idiots became _it_ for him. Peggy would laugh if she saw him now, he’s pretty sure. _Couldn’t just settle for one, could you, Steve?_

“Let him go, Buck, he’s supposed to be resting,” Steve says.

“Coffee,” Clint says clearly when Bucky lets go of him, and Bucky sighs.

At least that hasn’t changed.

_Steve knows deep down that Bucky was dead._

_There’s something different about him now. He’s erratic, tripping over his words when he even bothers to speak at all, and there’s ice in his eyes when he shoots a man through the head. Outside of a fight he hides himself away from the others, curls up in a dark corner like the light bothers him. Peggy jokes that he’s a character from Bram Stoker’s Dracula._

_Bucky still responds to Steve easily enough, which is the only reason Steve doesn’t bring it up to anyone. He does ask Bucky if he’s fine again and again, but the most he gets is a faint smirk or a dry joke. There’s something brittle in his expression, though._

_Steve thinks it’s his fault._

_Maybe the people who were scared of him had a reason to be, if he’s fucked up the person he loves the most in this world. People aren’t supposed to come back from the dead. It’s a disruption of nature, he’s made a mistake and he can’t find it within himself to regret it because he loves Bucky more than he’s ever loved anything or anyone._

_It’s not the same, though._

_It’ll never be the same._

_When Bucky falls from the train, something in Steve is relieved._

_At least this way he doesn’t have to face up to what he’s done._

"Gotta go,” Bucky says, shoves a handful of fabric into Steve’s arms. “You’re on Hawkeye duty.”

Then he’s racing off in the direction of the elevator and Steve’s left standing in the hallway, wondering what that was all about. A few seconds later Natasha comes stalking past Steve and heads in the same direction with a slightly murderous aura emanating from her. The elevator’s already gone but then the door to the stairs slams open and her boots clack down those instead.

Steve decides he doesn’t want to know.

Instead he looks at the fabric. There’s a shirt in here, along with a hoodie that might’ve originally belonged to Bucky but Clint has taken possession of. Clint’s neon purple boxers are in here too, and Steve clues in when he hears the water pipes turning on.

The bathroom is already filling with steam when he enters. “You’re not supposed to be doing things without help yet.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint says from behind the floral shower curtain. “Tell that to Bucky and Nat, they’re the ones having a prank war.”

“Is _that_ what that was?” Steve sets the pile of clothes down on the counter and checks to make sure there’s a dry towel and the first-aid kit at hand just in case Clint does something to his stitches. “Did you cover up the stitches with something before you got in the water?”

“You’re worse than Bucky,” Clint grumbles. “We taped a wrap over it before I got in. I can shower by myself, Rogers, I’m not a child.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Want a hand?”

There’s a long pause where Steve thinks Clint’s going to say no. It’d be fine if he did - Steve’s not going to force him, and he doesn’t mind leaning up against the bathroom counter to keep company while Clint washes himself. It’s nice just spending time with Clint, when he isn’t busy dying in Steve’s arms. He’s fond of the bathroom as well, the warmth in the tiles. Tony’s made a mistake in heating the floor for them.

“...will you wash my hair?”

“Sure,” Steve says, already shucking off his clothes. Clint tugs the curtain back and Steve spends five seconds admiring the curves of his body and another five worrying about the cover taped to the stitches in his body. It doesn’t look wet though, and Clint’s expression is a little nervous like he’s expecting him to say something about it.

Steve doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps into the shower, tugs the curtain shut behind him and runs careful fingers over Clint’s shoulders once he’s settled. Clint sways into it, lashes wet and dark gold, hair plastered to his skull. Steve steadies him and then reaches for the scented shampoo Bucky keeps.

They don’t get a lot of time to just enjoy the quiet.

_They’re_ not quiet.

“You’re not allowed to be this good at hair-washing,” Clint mumbles at him.

Steve continues rubbing the shampoo into Clint’s hair, can’t help the little smile that crawls onto his face when Clint leans into him. Clint’s soft and pliant under his hands and it almost feels like he should be _purring_ when Steve rinses it off. He’s pretty, under the scars and bandaids - maybe _with_ them, and Steve suddenly remembers kissing him for the first time in the rain.

“Lean back,” he instructs, one hand on Clint’s back to keep him steady. He’s careful not to do anything that’ll put strain on the wound in Clint’s back, but he’s still aware that his touch and proximity is having an _effect_.

“I know sex is off the cards because it’s a ‘strenuous activity,’” Clint says, emphasizing hard enough that Steve can almost see the apostrophes. “But do handjobs count as sex?”

“Yes.”

Clint huffs out a sigh and Steve checks to make sure his in-ear hearing aids are still lit up green and he hasn’t gotten soap in them or anything. It’s all fine. Clint’s pouting at him just a little and Steve’s not supposed to cave this easily but he’s wet and hot and _asking_ for it, so the only option is to let one of his hands slip down to Clint’s half-hard cock.

“See,” Clint says a few seconds later, voice rough. “No- uh, no harm done.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Steve tells him, works his hand a little faster. Clint squirms up against him, breath escaping in short pants as his fingers curl around the rail they have for the shower, eyes closed as he thrusts as much as he can into Steve’s fist. He’s beautiful to watch and Steve’s a little short of breath himself.

“Shit, don’t stop,” Clint breathes. “Steve, fuck, I’m gonna-”

Clint shifts his weight a second later - whether to get more comfortable of a position or something else, Steve doesn’t know - but then he slips on the nonstick mat and falls with a crack that makes Steve cringe.

“Clint? Clint? Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

_Clint’s not Bucky._

_There’s something about him that_ reminds _Steve of Bucky, for the tiniest second, and then Clint opens his mouth and that thought burns up quicker than he’d thought it. Natasha is Steve’s new ally in this off-center world and Clint comes along with her. They work as a package, although not in the way he expects them to._

_(They’re both gorgeous, why aren’t they dating? Clint makes a joke about work wives once but they never really explain it, and Steve doesn’t ask.)_

_Clint’s vicious and sarcastic and effective as hell and it’s all buried under a guise of good humour. He’s playing at being the village idiot so he’ll be underestimated - and maybe because he_ believes _he’s useless, just a little - and Steve doesn’t buy it for a second, ropes him into tactical plans and feels a pulse of satisfaction when Clint’s just as effective as he’d expected._

_He’s also satisfying to look at, so it’s not that much of a surprise when they end up fucking on the desk, on top of the blueprint they were looking at._

_“Shit, Rogers,” Clint says. “Please tell me this isn’t a one-time thing.”_

_Weirdly enough, Steve doesn’t_ want _it to be a one-time thing. He’s still in love with Bucky; still a little lost without him, but the feelings for Clint grow alongside that._

_He’d never planned on using his magic again, not after what happened with Bucky._

_Then Clint gets hit during a fight, mumbles something about love and bad timing as the blood leaks from his lips._

_Steve doesn't hesitate._

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Bucky says.

“Hey, I don’t even have a scar anymore,” Clint says, completely ignoring Bucky in favour of tugging his shirt up to reveal the blank patch of skin where he’d been impaled. “Look at that. Stark’s new medics must have some fancy shit going on - it was leaking yesterday. Guess what they say about a good nap is true.”

Steve looks blankly at Clint’s stomach. Bucky’s pacing around behind them and he can’t find it in himself to ask him to stop. Honestly, Bucky looks like he’s two seconds away from fighting Clint and it doesn’t seem like such an unreasonable measure now. This is ridiculous. _Surely_ he can’t be this unfortunate.

The reason Clint’s wound has healed is because Steve had to bring him back in the bathroom after _bringing him back_ , tucking him into bed quickly before he scrubbed the blood off the tiles. Tony had walked in as he was cleaning. Now he’s making Hannibal jokes and Steve doesn’t know who to be grumpy at.

“You’re not looking,” Clint says. “Either of you. Pay attention to me or I'll throw something.”

“If I look at you right now I’m not gonna be responsible for my actions,” Bucky says threateningly.

“But I’m so cute, Buck, c’mon. What’s wrong?”

“Bucky’s right,” Steve cuts in. Clint blinks at them then, like he’s not expecting Steve to say anything. Like he’s not expecting Steve to side with Bucky, which- there shouldn’t _be_ sides, not with them. That’s not how their relationship is supposed to work, but Bucky is right and something needs to be said. “Clint, are you- why are you making so many mistakes?”

“Mistakes?”

“You fell in the shower,” Bucky says flatly.

“Tony took out the nonstick mats,” Clint answers.

“The grappling rope on your arrow snapped!”

“It was an old arrow and I forgot to change it!

“You _ate_ rat poison,” Bucky says.

Clint throws his arms wide. “Someone put it next to the flour in the communal kitchen!”

Bucky sighs heavily and drops his face into his hands. Steve just looks at Clint. He doesn’t know how to conduct an intervention. Neither of them do. He looks at Bucky. He looks back at Clint. Clint’s got one eyebrow cocked curiously at them like he’s waiting for an explanation, some kind of elaboration. From his end it probably looks strange, Steve supposes, their exasperation at his constant injury.

There’s nothing sinister in his expression, nothing that would suggest he’s doing it on purpose.

They’ve been looking for some kind of reason for this constant stream of death, because they’re used to a conspiracy around every turn. Steve’s haunted by his past and so is Bucky, and maybe that’s playing a part in why they’re expecting some bigger picture to this.

But maybe Clint’s actually that unfortunate after all.

“We should go out for dinner,” Steve says eventually. “We missed date night last week.”

Clint perks up at the mention of dinner. “Can we go to that place downtown, near Strange’s house? He yells at me if I show up near the Sanctum Sanctorum without supervision, just because I broke some old-ass ornament of his a year ago. It was an _accident_ , I didn't know it was some kind of wizard bullshit.”

Bucky’s sigh gets louder, and slightly more pointed.

Steve decides to ignore him.

In the end it doesn’t really matter because no matter how many times Clint dies, Steve can just bring him back again.

It’s as simple as that.

_When Clint comes back to life the first thing he does is grin at Steve like an idiot._

_Steve’s expecting something to go wrong like it did with Bucky. He pulls Clint to his feet and swings the shield up to protect them from a shower of metal and rock, tugs Clint tighter to his chest. He pretends it’s for protection but on the inside he knows it’s just because he’s scared. Clint’s hair is tickling his chin and when they separate he swings around with an arrow and hits his target easily._

_“Hey Rogers,” he says a second later, when the enemies have begun to die down._

_Steve’s worried. “Yeah, Clint?”_

_“First one to take down the big guy gets a blowjob from the other,” Clint says, which is so very_ Clint _that all of his worries are shot right out of the water._

_“I’m not betting during a fight,” he manages to answer._

_“Spoilsport,” is the reply he gets, and then it’s all Steve can do to watch him scale a wall and run towards the largest monster, pulling out an arrow. Clint laughs when he jumps off the building and onto the monster’s back and that’s the most obvious sign he’s fine. He’s just Clint being Clint. There's no brittle smile, no warning flags that anything's wrong._

_When they get back to the Tower Clint asks him if he wants to stop, now that Bucky's alive._

_Steve doesn't even think about it. He says no._

_What happened to Bucky wasn't Steve's fault._

_Maybe the magic isn’t so bad after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Title Inspo: [Doubt - SYCAMOUR feat Phil Druyor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdXNHqPsYt0)


End file.
